Page 145 of Cozen

“You won’t have a drink with me? This is almost over.”

He blinked.

Still hard against her thighs, and his come leaking out of her.

He only blinked.

“Drink,” she whispered. “Toast something for me, Sargon. Celebrate with me.”

“Since when do you drink whiskey?”

His question accompanied him taking the glass from her before he lifted it to his lips to down the alcohol mixed with a drug to knock him out. It was a good way to get rid of the rest of the mixture, anyway.

Sargon was far too trusting—despite knowing she was here to steal from the man he was supposed to protect, he still trusted her. She thought he even loved her.

“I don’t drink whiskey,” she said.

“I know,” he replied.

It was too late.

He’d already finished the glass. And her time here was nearly over. She only had a few things left to do—the clean-up, so to speak.

Every good thief needed to make it out clean.

Sargon’s eyelids felt glued together. No matter how hard he tried to open his eyes, his body just wouldn’t cooperate, it seemed. His body ached—limbs heavy and sore, and his mind sluggish and cloudy. His mouth felt like cotton when he smacked his lips, and the taste that accompanied it was disgusting.

He struggled to remember … well, anything. He didn’t know where he was, or why the softness under his back was not the firm mattress he preferred. He tried to pull anything from his memories to tell him how he ended up like this, and yet a giant black hole was the only thing he found in his mind.

This was bad.

Bad, bad, bad.

Come on, he urged his body and mind. Wake up; get the fuck up.

Still, he got nothing.

Sargon rolled over to his side, and managed to crack his eyes open just enough to see the faintest flicker of morning sunlight filtering into an unfamiliar bedroom. It was no more than a small ray about an inch wide—full of dancing dust, and bright colors.

Yellows.

Whites.

Purples.

Reds.

Red like that dress—the slit up the thigh. Every single time she walked, he felt like ripping someone’s throat out for trying to get a peek at what that goddamn slit was showing off. Red was her color, though. She looked like every inch a fucking queen.

Red.

Red like the ruby ring spinning between his fingertips as he pulled the item out of its black velvet box, and removed it from the safe. It sparkled because of the way its angles had been cut. It caught light, and reflected back. A beautiful ring—shame about the cursive A carved into the bottom on the gem, though.

That really removed its value.

Red.

Red like Cozen’s lipstick print on his throat. He’d caught sight of it in a hallway mirror as she led him from the office, all confused and dazed.